


honey, make this easy

by quantumducky



Category: The Magnus Archives (Podcast)
Genre: Angst and Hurt/Comfort, Bathing/Washing, Dehumanization, M/M, Non-Graphic Violence, Non-Sexual Intimacy, fun with parallels! :), oops it's not a oneshot anymore, post episode 160
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-11-04
Updated: 2019-11-17
Packaged: 2021-01-22 15:07:57
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 7,076
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21304088
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/quantumducky/pseuds/quantumducky
Summary: When Jon realizes what he's done, he knows he has to leave.(What hedoesn'tknow, is how far Martin is willing to follow to bring him home.)
Relationships: Martin Blackwood/Jonathan Sims
Comments: 121
Kudos: 767





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> the working title of this document was "jarchive angsty time" i just think everyone should know that

When Jon realizes what he’s done, he knows he has to leave. Martin won’t like it, but… well. Martin doesn’t exactly have the best track record as self-preservation goes, does he? And Jon _ started the actual, literal apocalypse. _ Or Jonah Magnus did, through him, but he can’t see how that makes it any better. It just means his free will is worth even less than he thought it was- not even the Archivist, he’s simply the _ Archive. _ A repository of information and _ experiences, _ placed in his mind at the will of someone else, and what good can something like _ that _ possibly do for someone like Martin? It would be nice to think the Archive’s presence could protect him, at least, but… that’s not how their luck works. If anything, the tool used to start the apocalypse will only be _ more _ of a target, and so when Martin wakes up from the exhausted sleep he’s unintentionally fallen into on the couch after taking care of the windows, he will be alone. Maybe he’ll eventually forgive the person he thinks Jon is for leaving him there. The Archive walks out into the endless chaos, and wonders distantly how much more trauma there will be to take in before it finally comes across the thing it can’t survive.

* * *

When Martin starts awake at a particularly loud, terrifying noise from outside, the absence of Jon is a tangible weight in the air. He hopes he’s wrong, and calls out for him anyway. “Jon? Are- where are you?” There’s no answer. As if he wasn’t afraid enough already, a fresh dread curls in his stomach, cold and all too familiar- it feels like he spends most of his life, at this point, desperately worried for Jonathan Sims.

He forces himself up from the battered old couch and forces down the urge to curl up and cry in one decisive moment. First, he’ll search the few other rooms- maybe he’s just passed out himself, somewhere else. Probably not. That’s not how their luck works, is it? He doesn’t find Jon, but he finds… a note. It’s not a very helpful note. All it says is, _ I’m sorry. Don’t come after me. _ Smaller, below that, is added, _ Please. _ Even smaller, written in a shaky hand and underlined several times: _ Be safe. _ Martin folds up the note, tucks it safely into the inside pocket of his coat, and immediately starts preparing to venture outside. _ Obviously _ he’s not going to fucking _ listen. _

Jon seems to have taken absolutely nothing with him that wasn’t already on his person when he got some _ stupid _ idea in his head about needing to run off. Martin tries not to think about the many, many things that could leave him unprepared for and, for his own part, grabs absolutely anything he can possibly see himself needing. When he can’t fit anything else into his pockets, he picks up a kitchen knife- for all the good it will likely do him- and finishes dressing to go out into the storm, because it would really just be the _ worst _ to prepare himself against all forms of supernatural assault only to be done in by the weather. He can’t find his favorite scarf. Looks like Jon took _ one _ thing on his way out, after all.

The second he opens the door, Martin is nearly knocked to the ground. The fear had been… not _ gone, _ inside, but at least muffled. At least he couldn’t see it all so clearly. He wants nothing more than to slam the door and hide, both from the danger in all directions and from the Eye which watches the world suffer and feels no pity. But Jon is out there, and if that weren’t enough reason by itself, he refuses to give up the hope that if he can find Jon, there must be _ something _ they can do about all this, together. He closes the door behind him- locks it as well, as if that’s going to stop anything- and begins walking, one step at a time, calling out for Jon. He has no idea where he is, and yet somehow, there’s no doubt in his mind that he is going to be able to find him.

* * *

A part of the Archive had expected to be pretty okay with dying, now that it has no other real options _ left _ to it that don’t involve hurting someone, now that a relatively quick death is… probably more than it deserves, after what it’s done. As it turns out, there’s more human instinct left in there than it anticipated- should have expected that, to be honest. Anything that relieved it of fear would go against the entire purpose of it. So it runs from what chases it and tears at it and seeks to drag it down to the endless quiet it thought it wanted, and when there’s finally enough of a moment to stop running and remember how to breathe, it finds itself in someone’s shed. It knows the owner will not mind the intrusion, because the owner is already dead. It cannot hide in here, because nothing can hide anywhere in the new world it has created, but it might be allowed to rest for a while. After all, there would be no use in experiencing all this if it didn’t have the time to process what it sees. It curls up in a corner, knees to chest, and begins to categorize and understand all the things that have tried to end its existence so far today.

It hears someone shouting, after a while. A second later, it knows that _ someone _ is Martin and he is calling for Jon, and- and it wants to shout back, so, so badly. But the Archive is not Jon, not really, and it wouldn’t be right to lie to him about that, or to go back to him and bring along all the things that want to hurt it, and he’ll have to give up soon enough. It presses a scarred, shaking hand over its mouth, and listens, and cries with all the eyes it can, and after a few minutes, the only sounds are once again those of the ongoing apocalypse.

* * *

“Jon! _ Jon! _ Please…” Martin’s voice breaks. It feels like he’s been shouting for hours, and he’s surprised his voice isn’t gone yet, insofar as he can even think about anything other than _ finding Jon _ before he- before he gets hurt. He’s had a few close calls, himself- lots of things have heard him, as loud as he’s been, but he hasn’t stopped. He’s walking through a field right now. No animals around, either scared away or killed, but nothing _ else _ seems to be around, either. And no Jon. He stumbles over the uneven, soggy ground, and part of him wants to just… fall to his knees, right here, and not get up. Let the cold rain soak him through until everything stops hurting. _ It would be easier, _ says a voice in his head, _ he left you, he doesn’t want you to find him, why are you even doing this? _ But Martin knows that voice, and he knows not to listen to it, and he keeps walking.

More time passes- hard to say how much, between the storm clouds and nightmares blotting out the sun- and there is something visible up ahead. A house, half-destroyed and unlikely to contain anyone living, yet he feels _ drawn _ to it somehow. He calls out again as he approaches, hope sparking fresh in his chest, but no more response comes than usual; after a few more attempts, the strain on his vocal cords sets off a painful coughing fit, and he has to give up on that particular strategy.

He walks up to the house and rather optimistically knocks on the door. No one answers, of course, and when he gets the door open, there’s nothing inside that he much wants to dwell on. Whoever used to live here… they definitely don’t anymore. He sits down for a few minutes in a relatively untouched corner of a bedroom, both to rest his legs a little and because he sort of feels like throwing up after what he saw in the kitchen and needs to put his head down. When he leaves again out the back door, he’s nearly managed to accept that the feeling he had about this place was wrong and he’s going to have to go back to walking in what he can only hope is the right direction. And then he sees the shed out back of the house, with its door slightly ajar.

Martin does not run in and throw the doors open dramatically, no matter how much he’d like to. He doesn’t _ know _ it’s Jon in there (even though he _ does _ know, even though it _ has _ to be) and if it’s anything else, or even _ someone _ else, he’ll probably be in trouble. So he forces himself to slow down, approach carefully, keeping a hand on the kitchen knife he’s been getting an unfortunate amount of use out of, and he eases open the door, and the knife falls from his hand and sticks itself in the mud at his feet, unnoticed.

Jon is there, but- he’s hardly recognizable. He’s huddled in the corner of the shed behind some boxes, soaked through and shaking in the same thin cardigan he’d been wearing that morning, and the water dripping from him onto the floor is tinted an awful pink. His face is buried in Martin’s scarf, but the _ rest _ of his eyes are focused on the door, and somehow they all manage to convey the same look of half-wild terror. It doesn’t seem like Jon knows who he is, right now, but he doesn’t make any move to get away, just makes himself even smaller and hides his face and watches and _ waits. _ Martin blinks away tears and steps inside, closing the door behind him.

“Jon.”

He shudders, but doesn’t respond.

As slowly as he can, Martin crosses the short distance between them and kneels down. Jon flinches back, still staring. “I’m not going to hurt you,” he soothes, fighting to keep his voice steady. “Do you- recognize me?” Still, nothing. He sighs and reaches out, so slow it hardly feels like he’s moving at all, until he can take Jon’s face in his hands and gently tilt it up. “Jon, look at me, come on.”

He finally opens his- his _ original _ eyes, and after a few seconds, recognition seeps in. “Martin,” he breathes.

_ Thank God. _ “Yeah, it’s me. We- we need to get _ out _ of here, Jon, it’s not safe-”

Jon shakes his head. “I, I, I’m not, I can’t- you- you have to l-leave me here.” He has trouble getting the words out through his shivering, and yet pulls away with obvious difficulty from the warmth of Martin’s hands.

“That’s not happening.”

“Just, just listen.” Martin nods, because maybe hearing his reasoning will make it easier to talk him out of this idiocy and bring him _ home, _ and Jon takes a ragged breath and continues. “I’m not- I’m not _ Jon,” _ he says, and it so clearly hurts him to say it, and it’s so hard not to cut him off right there. “I know you think I am and you want me to be, a-and I’m sorry but- I can’t, Martin, I’m not even- you read the statement.” His voice is broken, but he pushes on. “You, you saw… what I did. I’m not even a _ person _ anymore, I’m just- just an archive of everything terrible and I don’t know how _ long _ it’s been this way and I, I don’t think I can pretend, not even for you, Martin, and I’m only going to get you hurt if you bring me back and you don’t _ deserve _ that, a-and, and I _ ended the world _ and now I’m just a broken tool and I think the best thing I can do is stay out of everyone’s way until something succeeds at killing me.”

Martin- fuck, he doesn’t even know how to _ respond _ to something like that. Jon takes his horrified silence as agreement and nods to himself before tucking his face back into the stolen scarf. “I-if you don’t mind, I’d really like to keep this,” he mumbles. “I know you have another one and… it helps.”

He reaches out again and tugs the scarf down. Jon glances up at him, tears welling in his eyes, and starts unwinding it with shaking hands and something halfway between a whispered “okay” and a sob. Martin shushes him quickly, takes both his hands in one of his own to stop him and tucks it back securely around his neck.

“You can keep it, you can keep it as long as you want, okay?”

Jon nods and squeezes his original eyes shut for a moment, breath catching in his throat as he cries.

“I hear what you’re saying, and I… I understand that you- think you’re not really a person anymore.” Martin swallows everything he wants to say about how untrue that is. Jon isn’t going to be able to listen right now, anyway, and there isn’t time to convince him. “But even if you’re right, I don’t _ care, _ Jon, whatever you are, it’s not going to stop me from- from caring about you. I’m not letting you stay here alone, so either you come home with me, or… we can both sit here in some probably dead stranger’s back yard waiting for something to show up and attack us.”

His mouth actually twitches into something like a smile for half a second at what, really, barely even counts as a joke. Martin decides this is a good sign.

“Come on,” he says, tone soft as he can possibly make it. Jon looks up at him, disbelief and loving trust warring in his eyes, and slowly, the trust wins out. Slowly, the extra eyes covering his body close and disappear, and the tension drains out of his posture, and by the time he’s left with only a few, he’s half-collapsed forward into Martin’s arms.

“Thank you,” he whispers fervently through a fresh wave of tears. “I, I don’t _ understand _ why you would- but thank you.”

There is nothing he can do except hold Jon close, wrapping his arms around his too-thin frame as if he could hold him together, tucking him against his chest as if he could shield him from everything in the world with his own body. And if he can’t do that, at least he can warm him, and tell him in every way possible that he’s here and never leaving, and maybe _ actually _ carry him home if he’s still shaking like this when they’re both calmed down enough to leave. He can do these things, and he will, and he’ll keep doing them as long as necessary, until Jon believes he deserves them, and then after that until he can’t anymore, one way or another. And, eventually- he hopes- it will be enough.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> i... could possibly be persuaded to add on to this with more comfort/recovery... if y'all want...


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> me: i'll just add a little more to expand on the comfort part of the hurt/comfort  
me, 3500 words later and still not done: aw. aw man. this is gonna have to end up 3 chapters isn't it  
"it was supposed to be a oneshot" - story of my life at this point

Martin does not, in fact, actually carry Jon all the way back to the safe house, but it’s a near thing. He loops an arm around his waist when they both stand up and takes as much of the smaller man’s weight as he will allow, but Jon insists on walking at least  _ somewhat _ under his own power. Most of his new eyes make a reappearance as soon as they step out of the shed, all watching in different directions. It should be cause for worry, more than anything, but Martin has to admit it’s nice to know nothing is going to come up behind them without being seen. The original two keep flicking up to glance at his face every time Jon is beginning to drift back into his thoughts. That’s nice, too, in the same conflicted way- he wishes Jon didn’t  _ need _ to continually ground himself in the present, but he’s glad he can apparently help.

“Not too much farther,” he says, even though Jon could probably tell him the  _ exact _ distance left if he asked. He doesn’t seem to mind the redundancy, just looks up at him again and gives him the barest hint of a smile. Martin squeezes his side gently and smiles back.

They make it back safely, or- as safely as is possible, given everything. Martin spends the entire time gripping the knife in his free hand, but between the two of them, they manage to mostly avoid everything that would make him use it. A second miracle: when they reach the house, it is still standing, the illusion of security there not yet destroyed. Martin has to let go of Jon to fumble his keys from his pocket and unlock the door, and in the seconds it takes, he sways concerningly and ends up leaning against the side of the house, looking like his legs might give out altogether in another moment. Martin has had enough of watching him nearly collapse. As soon as the door is open, he scoops Jon up despite his protests and carries him inside, finally setting him down on the couch.

He sits down beside him after re-locking the door and sighs. Soon, he’ll need to get up again. They need dry clothes, and probably a shower- assuming the water isn’t going to come out dark or filthy or, or as  _ blood, _ or some other variety of cursed- and  _ he, _ at least, still needs to eat, and he can’t imagine it would hurt Jon to get some actual food in him, either, even if he  _ can _ survive perfectly well on a pure diet of other people’s fear. For now, it would take more strength than Martin has to resist the borderline  _ need _ to pull Jon into his arms and curl around him and let it sink in for the both of them that they’ve made it home. Jon is quiet, a little tense, but he goes willingly enough, and once Martin has him practically in his lap, he latches onto the front of his sweater without even seeming to realize he’s doing it. For a few peaceful minutes, they sit there and simply  _ breathe. _

Martin’s fragile sense of calm is broken when he realizes Jon is shivering again, even pressed against him as he is, and looking in every direction like he still doesn’t trust their surroundings. “Okay,” he says, carefully untangling himself and standing up. Jon lets him go as easily as he let himself be held, and with as little awareness of the process. “I’ll be back soon, okay? I’m going to see if there’s any hot water.” In the meantime, he wraps him up in his coat and the blanket draped over the back of the couch. Some of Jon’s eyes track his movements, but he doesn’t respond. “I’ll be back,” he repeats, and brushes the wet hair out of Jon’s face before leaving the room.

* * *

The Archive sinks into the couch, and into the things bundled around it which smell like Martin, and exhales quietly. It knows it should not be here, shouldn’t have given in so easily and returned with him, but- well, hiding from him was one thing, it turned out, but breaking his heart directly to his face would have been something else entirely. That, and he might very well have been serious about refusing to leave that shed unless Jon- unless the Archive went with him. Putting Martin in danger like that was exactly what it was trying to  _ avoid _ by getting away from him in the first place.

It recognizes, distantly, that it is shaking- a combination of lingering, penetrating chill and equally bone-deep exhaustion and fear- and that it is silently crying. The crying hasn’t stopped since Martin showed up, actually, but it’s been delegated to some less visible eyes, so as not to worry him any more than he already is. Now, with the water running in the bathroom and Martin talking to himself just under the noise, there’s much less need to hide it. It’s safe to relax, here and now, just maybe.

Can it catalogue moments like this, just as it does the traumatic ones, filing away peace and comfort to pull back out and remember once they’re gone? It would be nice, which is why the Archive is fairly certain the answer is no. When the safe house is gone, nothing will be retained of it but the destruction. When  _ Martin _ is gone- whether he dies, or simply finally realizes the Archive was telling the truth when it told him what it is now and discards it as a thing he cannot possibly have any use for- all it will be allowed to keep of  _ him _ will be pain: his two weeks trapped by Jane Prentiss; Elias’s mental assault, captured on tape; his time with the Lonely. And, of course, it is certain, it will never need to worry about forgetting the moment of his loss. But  _ this… _ all the Archive can do is cling to the moment for however long it lasts. This is not what it is meant for, but selfishly, it will take whatever illicit happiness it is given.

* * *

It’s only the first day of the apocalypse, and so maybe it shouldn’t be so much of a surprise that the water comes out not only clear and untainted, but actually pretty  _ hot _ when Martin turns the handle. At first, his plan is to retrieve Jon and drag them both under the shower as soon as it reaches the right temperature. Then he thinks a little harder about the state he last left Jon  _ in, _ and starts filling the bathtub for him instead- they’re definitely not going to be able to share  _ that, _ but his coat mostly did its job and he doesn’t need it nearly as much as Jon does; he’ll be fine with just a change of clothes. (That was another, earlier pleasant surprise, the fact that Daisy’s safe house was equipped with more than just a shower. Martin had been planning to try a bath bomb at some point, but it doesn’t look like that’s going to happen anymore.)

In the minutes it takes to fill up, Martin thinks about what comes next for both of them. Or, rather, it might more accurate to say he sits down on the bathroom floor and has a bit of a breakdown, muttering things to himself along the lines of “okay, what the  _ actual fuck _ am I supposed to  _ do _ now?” and trusting the sound of the water to mostly drown him out. He pulls himself together in time to avoid letting the tub overflow, so it’s all fine. He shuts off the water and goes to retrieve Jon.

Jon, in the time he was out of the room, seems to have burrowed as deeply as possible into the couch. He looks up variously when Martin comes in and starts gently extracting him from the Jon-burrito he’s managed to turn into, which is… a good sign? Has to be better than staring distrustfully into every corner of the room, at least.

“I’ve run you a bath,” Martin tells him, helping him stand up. “To get you warmed up. Can I… do you want me to stay, or should I give you some privacy?”

He laughs, the first sound Martin’s heard him make since the walk back, and it comes out bitter and painful. “No such thing as privacy,” he half-whispers, “after what I did.”

“It wasn’t-” Martin cuts himself off, because Jon is still too brittle right now, and scolding him for blaming himself will only make things worse. “That’s not really what I’m asking,” he says instead. “Do you want me in here with you, or not?”

Jon pauses, sat on the edge of the tub, and blinks a few times. “I… yes,” he finally says. “Please.”

“Okay. Let me help you with your clothes, then?” 

He nods, and Martin sets about tackling the buttons on his shirt- too difficult at the moment for Jon’s unsteady hands. The fabric is stuck to his skin with cold rainwater and half-dried blood; he hisses in pain when Martin pulls it off. …Probably not getting worn again, that one. He murmurs an apology and tries to be more careful going forward.

* * *

There are very few things in the world that the Archive still does not understand, and this is one of them: how Martin can treat it so gently, take such care with a body already so damaged that a little more injury should hardly register, even when he knows exactly what it has done. Ask  _ permission _ to stay and help, as if  _ he’s _ the one being allowed a kindness here, and as if the Archive has any right at all to be given choices, even ones as small as this. It’s a struggle not to press into his hands at every little touch as he peels away and discards the clothes half-ruined in the storm.

“Sit back, now,” Martin says, and “You might want to close some of those eyes,” and helps with the transition into the water. It’s hot enough to almost hurt, and nearly all of the Archive’s eyes do end up closing. Not the original ones, though. After just a second fully submerged, those need to be open again in order to look up at Martin. The hot water is amazing, but the most important thing is still to absorb, as much as possible, the experience of having Martin here despite everything. He notices the staring soon enough and laughs, tired and fond. “You’re going to get soap in your eyes, don’t say I didn’t warn you- here, what if I just…”

He moves out of view for a moment, which is bad, but then Martin’s hands are in the Archive’s hair and the eyes Jon started out with flutter closed almost of their own accord. “Good,” he says with a hint of a smile in his voice, “stay just like that for me, okay, I’m not going anywhere.” The Archive is not good, and Martin should know this, but it doesn’t have the heart or even the  _ voice _ to tell him so once he fumbles for his bottle of shampoo and starts working it into the mess of hair between his fingers, easing out the tangles as he goes. “Is this okay?” he checks, and gets something between a hum and a sigh in response. “I’ll take that as a yes.” He sounds happy; that’s good to hear. The Archive isn’t sure what it’s done to cause that, but it very much wants to be able to make Martin happy.

That thought is the last clear, coherent one it has for a while. Everything is warm and vague, and then it goes even  _ further _ out of focus- not quite sleep, but a comfortable blankness. For a short, blissful time, there is nothing but the sensation of warm water and Martin’s hands, and just the faintest hint of lingering guilt.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> so. yeah. there's one more part coming. i'm half done with it already. i don't know how this whole thing ended up so long.


	3. Chapter 3

Jon looks utterly dead to the world, and yes, Martin might be just a little bit- extremely- satisfied with himself, having coaxed him from pure tension to  _ this. _ The only sign that he isn’t actually straight-up unconscious is the way he cooperates with Martin’s nudges to turn his head a certain way or sit up. He almost wants to keep him like this, somehow, calmed and pliant and not running off anywhere to get himself hurt again, but- not as much as he wants Jon back to his usual self, his sharp edges and soft center and teasing, lack of decent self-care habits and all.

It doesn’t take very long, actually, to wash off the mud and blood clinging to Jon’s skin. The rain did most of the work for him already. Martin doesn’t have the heart to get him out of the bath just yet, though, not when he’s lying there so  _ peacefully, _ and not when he can so clearly remember finding him half frozen and terrified. He kneels next to the tub and runs his fingers through Jon’s freshly washed hair until his legs are getting painfully stiff, and then until the water is starting to get cold, and  _ then _ he helps him up, sits him on the edge of the tub again and wraps him in a towel and finds another to pat the excess water from his hair. Jon tips to the side and leans against him without opening his eyes.

“Tired?”

Jon only sighs quietly and puts even  _ less _ effort into holding himself up- presses his face against Martin’s leg, because sitting here, he doesn’t  _ reach _ any further up than that. It’s hardly the first time Martin has noticed how small the other man is in comparison to himself, or even the first time the observation has twisted his heart with how  _ fragile _ Jon looks when he lets himself show any vulnerability at all, but-  _ fuck. _ With a deliberate effort, and  _ also _ not for the first time, he does not act on the desire to wrap him up- in his own arms, blankets,  _ whatever- _ and never let him go.

“Heh… yeah, me too. Come on, let’s get you dressed, and then we can sleep for a while.” He doesn’t pick Jon up again, because there would be no comfortable way to navigate the fact that he is currently wearing nothing but a bath towel, but he still doesn’t think Jon’s legs are doing any of the work whatsoever as they move into the bedroom together.

_ Small _ is one word for the room- it is a bedroom by virtue of containing a bed, and that’s pretty much all there is to it- but  _ cozy _ is another, and Martin very much prefers that. The luggage they were never able to unpack their clothes from is propped against one wall, and he rifles around for something suitably warm and clean for both of them, while Jon sits on the bed and tries to blink himself back into full awareness with debatable success. 

“Ah- no, no, that’s…  _ yes, _ there, perfect!” 

He stands up triumphantly, clothing piled in his arms, and dumps it on the bed to sort out again. Jon watches and eventually, with a little shake of his head, remembers that he isn’t exactly supposed to just sit there and let Martin dress him like a doll, and starts getting dressed  _ himself. _ It’s a relief to see he isn’t  _ completely _ checked out. Martin changes, too, once he can see he doesn’t have to worry about him for the moment- even though it’s really only the jeans he was wearing that are wet and uncomfortable enough to be a problem, if he’s going to nap, he’s going to do it  _ right. _ So he pulls on sweatpants and an old T-shirt, and starts gathering up both their dirty clothes to… well, if he’s being realistic, to throw in a corner and deal with at some nebulous future time… and then he realizes Jon is staring again. Not exactly new, that, but he’s looking at Martin’s discarded sweater with an almost singular focus, and it’s not difficult to work out what  _ that _ means.

Martin sighs and shakes his head slightly, because doesn’t he know he could just  _ ask? _ …Then again. Judging by the way Jon starts at the sound and looks at him, nervous like he thinks he’s done something wrong, maybe that  _ is _ a bit much to expect from him just now.

“Here.” He steps into Jon’s space and tugs the almost comically oversized garment over his head, not because he thinks he needs the help, but because he’s not sure Jon would actually bring himself to accept the thing if Martin simply asked if he wanted it, given the headspace he’s been in today. Jon pushes his hair back from his face once he’s found the sleeves and looks even more startled than before in his general direction. “Wouldn’t want you getting cold again,” Martin offers as an excuse.

Jon nods and averts his gaze rather self-consciously. He doesn’t seem to be aware of wrapping his arms around himself, digging his fingers into the fabric. He’s surprised yet again when Martin pushes at his shoulder as gently as he can and still nearly manages to unbalance him.

“Time to sleep, I think.”

“Yes,” he agrees, voice quiet and just a bit rough, “I- I think so too.”

They've been sleeping together here for weeks- not in an, an  _ innuendo _ sense, just, sleeping- and it's automatic by now to settle under the covers and eliminate the space between them. They both breathe a little easier once Jon is curled up in Martin's arms, body tucked against his chest and head under his chin. They can't be truly safe, but this may be the closest they ever get again to feeling it. It's not until they're both halfway to falling asleep that Jon finds the voice to speak up again.

"Martin?"

He hums, nuzzles the top of his head in an absently sleepy way. "Jon?" He frowns and shakes himself more awake when Jon tenses up. “What’s wrong?”

* * *

The Archive flinches back- not quite ducking out of his hold, but pulling away.  _ That. _ That’s exactly what they need to talk about. “I, I, I’m  _ not. _ I  _ told _ you, and you’re not- you don’t  _ understand, _ Martin, I-”

“Oh, hey, hey.” Martin catches the Archive’s hands and gives them a gentle squeeze. “Maybe… maybe I don’t understand.” He doesn’t seem to like the admission, but goes on. “Why don’t you try and explain? We’ve got time, now.”

“Right.” Deep breath, try to be calm about this, it’s just- just a fact, the  _ truth. _ Just a truth that might cause Martin to leave, once he really understands. Or ask the Archive to leave again. But that was the plan to begin with. Nothing to be  _ nervous _ about, right? “You keep… I already told you I’m not- I’m not Jon, anymore, and you still keep acting like I am like you think I’m going to just, get over it, once I feel better, and  _ magically _ become a human being again, and it’s not… I need you to understand it’s not going to  _ work. _ This is, this is just what I am now, and… I don’t want you to keep- staying with me and taking care of me and hoping it will fix me. I’m not a thing that can be  _ fixed, _ I just- it’s too late.” The Archive’s treacherous voice breaks and doesn’t come back for several seconds, equally unwanted tears escaping, and Martin is still there, lifting a careful hand to wipe them away and looking nothing but supportive and worried and very much  _ not leaving, _ and he must not  _ understand, _ still, so the Archive tries to calm down and keeps talking.

“So- so I think you should go, or- or rather  _ I _ should go, because everything seems to especially want to kill  _ me _ and if I’m around you then you’ll be in danger as well, and I don’t want… I know you want to help, o-or at least you want to help  _ Jon, _ and I… I look like him, but I’m not worth that, Martin, I don’t… I can’t be anything but this anymore, and…” It’s too hard to look at him. The Archive’s eyes squeeze shut briefly, for once not  _ wanting _ to see, not if it’s going to be Martin finally realizing what he’s been taking care of. “I don’t want you to get hurt,” it finishes, its voice going small and shaky.

Martin is quiet for  _ far _ too long. There is, the Archive thinks, only one possible reason for this, and it  _ tries _ to let him take his time, it really does, but it can’t stand the waiting and finally interrupts.

“You don’t have to… let me down gently. I can just go-”

_ “No.” _

His head snaps up, and his voice is  _ fierce, _ and his hands grab the Archive’s wrists before he remembers himself and lets go.

“You aren’t going to just- I- what the  _ hell _ made you think you’d be  _ protecting me _ by leaving me  _ alone _ in the middle of the  _ fucking _ fear apocalypse?!” He shakes his head, tries to collect himself. “I don’t  _ care _ what you are. You do  _ not _ get to do that to me out of some- some  _ stupid _ idea of keeping me safe.”

“Oh- god, Martin, I, I’m so sorry, I wasn’t thinking-”

“You’re damn  _ right _ you weren’t.” He sighs, and reaches for the Archive’s hands again, and meets no resistance in pulling them to his chest. “Just… please. Promise you won’t try to do that again.”

“N-no, I won’t. I’m sorry.”

“Good,” he says, but there’s no bite to it. “And- I’m sorry, too, I shouldn’t yell at you when…” He trails off without finding the end to that sentence, but pretty much everything about their current situation is implied to fill the blank. The Archive thinks it rather deserved to get yelled at for that, but doesn’t say anything.

Being away from Martin is unaccountably cold, despite the layers of warm clothes and blankets. It’s hard not to curl into him again the moment it’s clear he isn’t staying angry and doesn’t want the Archive gone. But they’re still talking, and he looks serious, and it’s probably not the best time to try and  _ cuddle _ him.

“Now, the- the rest of what you said,” Martin starts. He looks down, worrying his lower lip. “I know you don’t want me to tell you you’re  _ wrong, _ okay? But, well, you  _ obviously _ weren’t thinking clearly about the… leaving, thing… so are you really sure about the rest of it?”

“Martin…”

“I  _ know. _ Just, let me try. To understand. Okay? Because I think you’ve got it a bit wrong, maybe.”

The Archive sighs. “Fine.”

“So.” He keeps hold of one of the Archive’s hands, rubbing his thumb over the back, and moves his  _ other _ hand up to play with loose strands of hair, and even despite the stressful conversation they’re having it is  _ unfairly _ relaxing. “You’re not Jon anymore, you said. And, I mean, I think that’s a bit harsh- Helen’s still Helen, right? Even though she’s not really?”

An uncertain hum.

“Well… what’s that make you  _ now?” _

“The Archive.” Its voice has gone flat, for some reason. “You… you should know that. You read it, in the statement, after…” Just after.

Martin flares up again, snaps: “So you’re letting  _ him _ tell you what you are now?” 

The Archive flinches. “I-I…”

“No, I’m sorry, that was… I’m not mad at  _ you.” _

“Oh.”  _ Thank goodness. _

He takes a deep breath. “So, um… Archive.”

It wonders why it stings so much to hear him finally call it by the correct name, and then decides not to care. Lots of things hurt it for reasons it doesn’t understand. “Yes.”

“I guess I just don’t- when exactly did you  _ stop _ being Jon? I mean, were you Jon this morning, and then you…  _ that _ all happened, and suddenly you were the Archive instead?”

“No… not, not  _ exactly- _ I mean- i-it was more of a, a tipping point? Or I, I  _ realized _ it then, but it was… it must have started a long time ago, I- I don’t even know- maybe I’ve been  _ this _ for years and I just never knew, or was- in denial, more likely, o-or I never  _ was _ Jon but, I just, I wanted… I, Martin, I-I don’t know-”

He doesn’t quite shush it. The words it’s saying are important, or- they need to be  _ out, _ at least, and Martin lets them continue, and at the same time he cups the back of the Archive’s head and guides it to rest against him, to be close and  _ warm _ while it talks about its first collected experience as a  _ child, _ about the gradual loss of humanity ever since, about not being a real  _ person _ at all, let alone the same person Martin- … thought he was, when they met.

When the explanation is over, Martin is quiet for a long time, thinking, still making his absentminded gestures of comfort.

“I don’t care,” he finally decides. It’s not dismissive, just… a statement.

“I- what?”

“If you’re right, then I never actually knew the… the original version of you, did I? And I’m not going to sit here and argue the Ship of Theseus problem with you. If you don’t want me to call you Jon anymore then I can- try to respect that. But it’s not as if this really  _ changes _ anything. I-” He hesitates, then gives a little shake of his head and goes on. “I love you, okay?  _ You. _ Not some- concept of a perfectly normal human Jon Sims.”

“…Oh.” It comes out very soft, almost inaudible. “Martin…”

“And for what it’s worth,” he continues, “just because you aren’t  _ human _ doesn’t mean you’re not a  _ person. _ That’s a whole  _ other _ philosophical debate I’m not having but that’s because I’m right and you know it, you’ve just been too busy being stubborn and, and ridiculously hard on yourself to admit it.”

It’s… a lot to take in. Difficult to process, when it contradicts so many well-worn patterns of self-loathing thoughts, but… something clicks, even if it’s going to take a lot more talking and thinking and effort to make it fully sink in. The Archive smiles slightly, and looks up enough so Martin can actually tell, because he deserves to know when he’s being smiled at, and struggles not to yawn. It’s been a very long day.

“You may… have a point,” it- he? concedes, and then burrows in under the covers and against Martin’s chest again. “But. Mm. Too tired to be a person right now. Ask me again in the morning.” It barely even feels like an important thing to worry about, right this minute. The only important things right now are getting some sleep and being close to Martin, who understands and still isn’t leaving, who  _ loves _ whatever is currently next to him.

Martin exhales, a breathy, relieved laugh, and tucks the blankets more securely around them to keep out any drafts. “Sure. First thing, I’ll wake you up and ask if you’ve solved your identity crisis yet. Go to sleep, you silly man.”

The Archive’s eyes have already closed, all of them, in a show of deep trust, and Martin curls just a bit closer and quickly follows suit. For a little while, at least, everything else can wait.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> me, posting this as soon as it's done with barely any editing: sure do hope that conversation made sense and wasn't just a rambling mess lol
> 
> anyway writing this has been very fun thanks for reading

**Author's Note:**

> i don't understand how this happened i just thought about jon angst and went absolutely wild and wrote twice as much as expected


End file.
